Baseball Pilgrims

Spring Training Twist On A Classic Cap.

This past weekend the Dog Doc and I morphed from best of friends to stalwart pilgrims as we hit the road for Phoenix, Arizona.  What brings two fine California gentlemen to Arizona, you ask?  Why, only one thing--the Los Angeles Dodgers.

Spring is in the air, which, in addition to daylight saved, weather warmed, and allergies aggravated, means spring training.  For the uninitiated, spring training is when Major League Baseball teams gather in warm weather locales like Arizona to tune up for the season.  After braving a long winter of inactivity, baseball players need a month or so to get their minds and bodies back into peak condition to weather the grind of the 182-game baseball season.

And so on Friday afternoon the Dog Doc and I raised our banners (read: baseball caps), hopped into my Energy Efficient Steed, and ventured eastward to the desert sands of the state in which "Ditat Deus."  After a longer-than-hoped-for journey, including a pit stop in Blythe for some rebellious bbq, we eventually arrived at our lodgings, the aptly-named Knights Inn.  It was a nondescript little building tucked away next to the Interstate and a three-story monstrosity of a strip club called the Jaguares Gold Club.  All things considered, it had some character (and characters).  And I got a pretty good feeling from the recently-immigrated night receptionist who from behind his bulletproof glass regaled me with tales of our shared ancestral homeland.  In fact, it's gonna be hard to point the finger at him when I start seeing charges on my credit card from Osaka to Uzbekistan.

Anyway, we finally get to our room and the first thing we noticed is how spacious it was.  It appeared to be two rooms converted into one giant "suite."  The second thing we noticed was the odor.  A mixture of cigarette smoke and cat pee.  With the smoke detector tucked away neatly in the nightstand, it would appear that the "No Smoking" signs were just a polite request.  The phone is not working, which prohibits communication with the front desk.  However, it also eliminates the possibility of the front desk calling in the middle of the night with unwanted interruptions.  The suite contains a single table and chair, a place where you can easily envision John Malkovich sitting and plotting a presidential assassination.  While carefully opening various drawers and cupboards, we stumbled across a Bible, which I thought was in surprisingly good condition.  The Dog Doc chimed in that it's likely because that book is the least-touched and therefore cleanest item in the whole suite.  Truth.  I'll spare you the details of the bathroom and the beds, but please, feel free to let your imaginations run wild.

I think it's fair to say that the beauty of the human spirit is that it can adapt to any situation.  So despite lacking in the creature comforts of home, we quickly adopted Room 158 as our home for the next two nights.  Plus, the room wasn't that bad (I mean, they'd at least removed the dead body (bodies?) before our arrival).  Certainly nothing a few beers and hits off Clayton couldn't cure.  For, we were devoted baseball templars.  Simple discomfort and fear of disease would not stop us from completing our pilgrimage.  And when I use the word "pilgrimage," I do so in all sincerity.  Many people equate sports fandom to a cult, but to me it's more than that.  A cult implies blind worship;  something empty.  Baseball is more than that.  You don't just worship it.  You have faith in it because you believe in it.  It transcends mere cult to become religion, and Spring Training is its purest manifestation.

Spring baseball is stripped of all the monied trappings of the regular Major League Baseball season.  The stadium are tiny, the games are no frills, and multimillionaires mingle with journeyman scrubs lucky to get a couple-hundred-dollar signing bonus.  The game is distilled to its fundamental essence; to what you loved so much about little league and sandlot games.  But, most of all, the air is filled with pure belief.  From the players to the organization to the fans, everyone has hope.  Everyone believes that this season will bring with it glory; that in October the Dodgers will be the last team standing.  Sure, all that belief may ultimately prove to be in vain, but right here right now, it feels very real and very possible.  I suppose that's the beauty of games that don't count.  A beauty that only spring can foster; something too fragile for the oppressive heat of summer and the chilly winds of autumn.

Religions have their rituals, and I think making the trip to Arizona could be one that becomes a regular part of my March routine.  Although, next year I may switch up the lodging situation.  That is of course unless the Dodgers win the World Series.  At which point, for better or for worse, the destinies of the me, the Dog Doc, the Dodgers, and Room 158 will forever be entwined.

--KM

"So what we get drunk.  So what we don't sleep."

Spring Forward

Did you know that today is the first day of Spring?  I didn't.  Not until I was awoken this morning with a pleasant text from Double D--"Happy Persian New Year!"  Or, to be more precise, not until I did Wikipedia on "Persian New Year" and learned that it's celebrated on the first day of Spring.  Which makes a lot of sense.  Certainly more so than celebrating the new year at an arbitrary date in the middle of Winter.

I usually don't track the seasons.  Well, with the exception of Autumn.  When the calendar flips to September, I start dreaming of Autumn's arrival.  The crisp weather and how it heralds the holiday season; that smooth continuous ride from Halloween to Thanksgiving to the Winter Holidays.  I didn't bother with Spring, as it was merely a reminder that Winter was gone and the hot, muggy, unbearable days of Summer were soon to invade my personal space.

This year, though, I feel pretty good about Spring, and it's arrival coincides with some pep in my step that I've felt these past few weeks.  Part of that may be the work of Daylight Savings and the longer days, but there's something more there.  Something that can't be explained by simple human manipulation of the clock.  It feels like ice that's been encasing my spirit is slowly starting to melt away.  Drip.  Drop.  Drip.  I feel groggy and disoriented, but in a good way.  Like a bear coming out of hibernation.

Of course, Spring signals rebirth and renewal, so perhaps that's what's behind my feelings.  It is the Year of the Phoenix, after all.  An omen of good things to come?  Stay tuned.

-KM

"Good morning.  On this day we become legendary."

Murder, Grief, and the Pursuit of Justice

There was foul play in my aquarium.  Murder, to be specific.  I have no suspects, but it's only a matter of time before the killer is brought to justice (Yes, I realize I need to get out more).

A few nights ago, I returned home to find that Sparky had passed away.  I was a bit surprised because he'd been doing fine up to that point.  No signs of distress or discomfort.  In fact, he'd taken two "fishwives"--Junior and Dotty--and the trio had been pumping out little babies at a rapid tick.  Perhaps in anticipation of their ever-growing family, they'd just purchased a home.  A newly remodeled sunken ship with all the upgrades.  The three of them would hang out inside there for the majority of the day, with Sparky patrolling the entrances and shooing away interlopers (I'm looking at you, Bert!).  All of it signs of happy fishdome.  And yet, there he was floating at the top of the aquarium. Staring at me.  I felt a little like Tom Hanks in The Da Vinci Code.  What are you trying to tell me, Sparky?

After some inspection and review of clues, I concluded that Sparky's death involved foul play.  Healthy fish just don't up and die.  But then who did the fateful deed?  My first thought was to Hanza, the resident bully of the tank.  She'd been acting up recently, and I'd spied her chasing Sparky around from time to time.  She had an alibi though.  At least one good enough to hold up to initial scrutiny.  Same for Bert.  I'd seen Sparky kick his ass a few times after catching him lurking around Junior and Dotty trying to get some action.  I thought maybe Bert's jealousy had turned to rage to murder, but that theory was also quickly debunked.

After searching into the deep recesses of my brain for all the criminal investigation knowledge gleaned from countless hours of watching Law & Order, I remembered Detective Lenny Briscoe stating that, more often than not, killer and victim are acquainted.  So I turned my attention to Junior and Dotty.  Had something happened to disrupt this happy, polygamous union?  Had Sparky been cheating on them with some young vixen?  One of the twins perhaps?  Or had he been spending the grocery money at the track?  Or was it something more devious; a conspiracy to cash in on his life insurance policy?

However, it quickly became clear that Junior and Sparky weren't involved.  In the days following Sparky's death, the two of them hid inside the sunken ship.  They were mourning.  It was strange to see that fish--an animal you'd consider to be somewhat dim--feel grief over a departed mate.  My veterinarian buddy, the Dog Doc (the artist formerly known as the "Transporter"), informed me that it wouldn't be unusual for even fish to feel some level of distress after the passing of a mate, especially if the mate was a male protector-type.  Whether that distress rises to the level of what we call "grief" or "sadness" is unlikely and possibly more a projection of human emotions than anything.  Still, as man to whom magic and science stand on almost-equal footing, Junior and Sparky's behavior looked like sadness to me.  And, I say that because something similar happen about a year ago.  After the passing of the wife in that prior fish couple, the husband was sad and lethargic for about a week before joining his wife in the Great Aquarium In The Sky.  Cause of death?  A broken heart.

Anyway, the fact that there are two grieving widows only strengthens my resolve to find the killer.  And, add to that the two more victims I found this morning, both unceremoniously lodged against the filter intake.  Whoever is doing all this mischief is certainly calculating, acting when it knows I'm away.  Actually, I'm starting to get the distinct feeling that despite my belief that I watch my fish, one of them has been carefully and meticulously watching me. . . even as I'm typing right now.  Dun dun du~n.

To be continued. . . (maybe)

--KM

"It was Miss Scarlett in the library with the candlestick."

Turn-Based Romance

A couple months ago, someone declared to me that texting has become the primary form of communication during courtship.  At the time, I didn't think much of that proclamation given how ridiculous it sounded.  Why would you choose to place such a narrow and limited form of communication at the foundation of your courtship?  Especially given how central communication is to that experience?  Don't you want to be free to have a much more fruitful and robust experience than what mere texting can offer?  However, the farther I get into the quagmire of 21st century dating, I see how prescient those words were.

Back in the good ol' days, it seemed like you didn't really text with people in the beginning stages of the courtship.  Once phone numbers were exchanged, you moved on to the awkward first phone call.  And, if you could tolerate speaking to each other for a sustained period of time, you moved on to an awkward first date.  Texting seemed relegated to conveying administrative messages like, "Running late" or "Just parking now."  Of course, if the courtship were to gain some momentum, texting could augment normal channels of communication, but even then it was used sparingly.  Since then, texting has mutated from its humble origins to become the omnipresent presence it is today.  The result is that you get short and oftentimes incomplete excerpts Frankenstein-ed together to form what loosely resembles a "conversation."

Now, I totally get why texting has become so popular in the realm of romance.  Odds are, you are not going to end up marrying (or even seeing long term) the person you are communicating with.  So, why risk getting your hands dirty with a face-to-face meeting or even a phone call? Like a latex glove, texting gives you a layer of protection while sampling these disposable, onetime interactions that oftentimes are kinda gross anyway.  Plus, given the number of freaks and creeps out there, it's better to use caution than end up chopped up into little pieces and stuffed into a freezer.  But still, it makes me a little sad that we've gotten to this point.  And not just because texting relegates courtship into a turn-based video game a la Words With Friends, but because it removes the raw, emotional element from romance, sucking the life out of it and spitting back something bland and sterile.

My feelings probably stem from my continued and persistent belief in the "chemistry/spark" theory.  Even though the theory has failed me over the past three decades, I still believe that you can tell fairly quickly after meeting someone whether you're going to connect with them romantically or not.  So, for me, the face-to-face meeting is the most critical component of the courtship.  I like the unpredictability and anticipation.  I like having to ad lib a bit.  I like that it's kind of awkward.  Unfortunately, my eagerness to get to that first meeting is often met with trepidation, so I have to first survive a gauntlet of ambiguous and vague texts before meeting up becomes even a remote possibility.  And, as you may have guessed, I am absolutely terrible at courtship via text.  Primarily because my mind goes into overdrive trying to decipher and decode each and every text that's sent and received--"What does she mean when she says, 'I'm good ;) u?'  What does 'good' mean?!  And why did she write 'u' instead of typing out 'you?!?'  And what does that little winky face mean?!!??!?!?  Ah!!!"  Needless to say, more than one of my text-based courtships has suffered a premature demise.

I guess all of this highlights once more that I'm turning into a crotchety old man.  I was never the most technologically savvy person to begin with, but lately it's just been getting downright ridiculous.  My only defense against the digital onslaught is to hold up nostalgia as a shield--"Remember when we used to talk to people face-to-face!?!?  The 21st century sucks!"  And yet, I can't say that romance is incompatible with technology.  I mean, just take a look at the mixtape, for example.  No, since the digital age is the tableaux for my modest romantic endeavors, I realize that some evolution on my part is necessary lest I go the way of the dodo.  It's just a matter of finding my own balance, I guess.  Even if it is just one text at a time.

--KM

"And I seem to find the happiness I seek when we're out dancing together cheek to cheek."

Eye of the Sabertooth Tiger

February sucked.

Although not without its bright spots, the majority of those 28 days were absolutely horrible, which was especially disappointing given how 2013 came storming out of the gate with a spectacular January.  So, to celebrate the occasion of the calendar  turning to March 1st, I accompanied the Apothecary and her friends to a party at the Natural History Museum.

For those of you who haven't been, the Natural History Museum has a terrific collection--rare gems, ancient artifacts, all manner of taxidermified animals.  The highlight, though, is their fossil exhibits.  Tyrannosaurus rex, woolly mammoth, ancient man--they're all there.  And, for all you Wonder Years fans, the museum is also the backdrop of a pivotal moment in Kevin Arnold's life--when Winnie discovers his infidelity and informs him that she's met another guy.  All told, the place is awesome.

But unsatisfied with just being awesome, the Natural History Museum gets downright fantastic by throwing itself a little party on the first Friday of each month, complete with keynote speaker, food trucks, and full-service bars.  Although all the exhibits are still open during the party, I must admit that the educational value of each seems to decrease proportionally to the amount of alcohol consumed.  As the evening progresses, thirst for knowledge is replaced by desire to mingle.  And so the museum obliges by dimming the lights, getting the liquor flowing, and transforming itself into a nightclub for nerds.  This is not meant to be negative.  Far from it.  As as a nerd myself, I think the advent of this type of club is pure genius.  I mean, I think clubbing can be fun, but how many times have I been to a traditional club and felt like the subject of a "which of these does not belong" brain teaser?  No more.  Although it lacked the regular accoutrements of a traditional club, the museum certainly captured that essence--a place to take it back a couple notches on the evolutionary scale and let out the primal side.

So, perhaps it was fitting that the focal point of the experience--the dance floor--was set up in the African Mammal Hall.  The space looks like your traditional club with its dim lighting, splashes of neon lighting, and a DJ conducting from his perch.  But of course, a traditional club doesn't have wild animals overlooking the whole affair.  The juxtaposition was strange and cool at the same time, which I suppose is what makes it nerdy, and it added a pinch of feralness to the already bubbling primal cauldron--the might of the elephant, the grace of the oryx, and the ferocity of the lion.  It was impressive.  And I am sure to be returning.

--KM

"Pardon me, the music is moving.  Moving from left to right."